Flashbacks
by Grips
Summary: Sarge's life story, from World War 2 to Radiator Springs. Rated for violence and drug use.
1. Childhood

**Flashbacks, Part 1**

**Childhood**

_A lot of people have been talking about whether cars are born or bred, and what exactly are the social implications of being a certain model? For example, are semis lower class vehicles because they're large and "built" to haul heavy loads? The movie seems to suggest it subtly, whether intentionally or unintentionally. It made me wonder exactly what life would have been like for the first Jeeps if they reproduced biologically, since they existed solely for warfare. This part contains child abuse, in case that particular subject squicks anyone, though it's not drawn out or particularly graphic. _

The little room was sparse and dull. The walls had at one point been painted white, but were now faded and chipped, in some places so much so that the bare concrete beneath was visible. The floor was carpeted, but it had been worn to almost nothing by many treads. Against the east wall was a dresser, against the north wall a bed. The bed was designed for a child, the only kind of bed that was suspended above the floor slightly; no more than four feet by two feet in size. Faint moonlight shone through the single grimy window.

A small Willys Jeep stood next to the bed, his antenna trained for noises outside the door. The little boy seemed satisfied that he didn't have an eavesdropper, and lowered himself to his belly before crawling beneath the bed. There he found a tattered cardboard box, and pulled it close to himself, carefully pulling back the flaps that concealed its contents.

Though the objects inside might seem uninteresting to the average child, William treated them like treasures. He cautiously removed them from the box, turning each thing over in his tires before setting it on the floor. First, a metal spinning top that had grown rusty. Second, four crayons, all of which were nearly half used up, the paper carefully torn back from the blunt ends. Upon closer inspection of the box, one would see that the inside had been coloured. The third and final object looked much newer than the others; a wooden yo-yo painted red and blue.

William was most interested in playing with the yo-yo, and he carefully put the crayons and spinning top back into the box before switching to reverse and pulling himself from under the bed, the newest toy in his teeth. Once he was standing, he reached down with his antenna and poked the end between the loop in the string. He was no longer listening for any noises outside the door, completely absorbed in his play as he sat back and tried to figure out how to use the yo-yo. He flicked his antenna, but it must not have been done correctly, as the string unwound and stayed unwound.

William's eyes narrowed and his bottom bumper jutted out in concentration. He wound the yo-yo back up and tried again. This time, it recoiled slightly, but when it had come half way back to his waiting grip it uncoiled again and hung limp.

The little Jeep was so absorbed in this new challenge that he didn't notice the door opening behind him. His father entered and frowned silently down at him. William let out a cry of fear as the world was turned upside down, and his yo-yo fell from his grasp to the carpet. He was suspended momentarily by the Ford's tire, then set back down in a standing position, now facing him.

"What have I told you about this?" his father said in a stern voice, and although it was level, the little boy trembled with fear. "I don't put a roof over your head and feed you and train you so you can play with toys in your spare time."

"I'm sorry, sir," the little boy said in a hushed whisper. He willed his eyes to stare straight ahead, not wanting to draw attention to the bed and what was hidden beneath. His father picked up the yo-yo with a scowl.

"Where did you get this?"

"I found it, sir." Which was true. During training, he had noticed the toy sticking from the mud and had hidden it in one of his wheel wells. It had surely belonged to one of the other boys, but William didn't dare reveal what he had found for fear that it would be taken away from him.

"Then you should have given it to me, or the nurse." The little boy's eyes flickered back to the bed. It had been the nurse who had given him the crayons after he had been injured one day. Bernard immediately groped beneath the bed and pulled out the box, which crumpled beneath his tire, rousing a cry of protest from his son.

William regretted the noise as soon as it had left him, but he didn't have time to apologize as the Ford's heavy tire struck him across the hood, sending him skidding across the carpet on his side. The Jeep's tires flailed in the air momentarily, but within seconds he pulled himself upright and stood at attention, antenna saluting. He prayed that his respectful position would save him from another blow, and he bit down hard on his bottom bumper to stop the tears that were welling in his eyes.

"You're the first of your kind, boy," his father said, repeating the lecture William and all the other boys here had heard 100 times over. "You're going to be a soldier one day. It's what you exist for. You and the rest of the Jeeps are going to have to be real men." He grabbed William's tire and wrenched him close, and his son was unable to stop the sob of fear that escaped him and the stray tears that slipped to his hood. His father stared down at him, still with his deep frown.

He worried that William was slipping. He was the smallest of the Jeeps here, as well as the most withdrawn. No son of his was going to turn out to be anything less than the perfect soldier, and he would go to great lengths to make sure that happened. He squeezed William's tire tightly.

"I don't want to see any more toys. Do something more productive with your free time."

"Yes, sir!"

The Ford let the little Jeep go, and William stood at attention and made no protest as his toys were gathered up and taken away.


	2. Midsummer Night

**Flashbacks, Part 2**

**Midsummer Night**

The night was stiflingly hot, and the sky was dotted with stars, a deep purple in colour. Behind the large brick building that the soldiers called home was an open field of tall, dark green grass. Here and there small gnarled trees grew from the loose, rocky soil.

In the middle of the field, the ground sloped suddenly, so suddenly that someone who didn't know the area might fall to the stone-choked stream that cut through the ground below. The slope on the other side was much more gradual, and on it was perched a Jeep.

He had the look of a young adult just out of his teens. He was large, and the picture of fit, with bright blue eyes. The young man was lost in thought, silently contemplating the day to come and gazing blankly at the nearly vertical slope across from him.

The sound of grass folding, twigs snapping, and a throbbing engine caused him to pause in his thoughts and shift his attention to the commotion behind him. He wasn't startled, because he knew who it was. There was no mistaking that loud, angry engine that suggested a vehicle much larger than William Armyson, who plowed through a tuft of long grass and joined him on the slope. The newcomer had dark brown eyes and was several inches shorter than the blue-eyed Jeep.

"Hey, Will."

"Tom."

The two stood in silence for a long time, because they both knew what the other was thinking. Tomorrow was the group's first day in combat. They had been training since childhood for it, and an anxious, still silence had hung over most of the Jeeps that day.

"Nervous?" said Tom with a smirk.

"No," replied the other in a surprisingly gruff voice. "We've spent so many years hearing about how goddamn important this is. How the day would come when America would need us." William shifted a bit to keep his balance. "It's like they saw the war coming a decade before it even started. I'm glad we're finally doing something other than just sitting around talking about it."

Tom's smirk grew with his amusement.

"I think that's the most I've ever heard you say about, well, anything."

William chuckled, and Tom was surprised. He couldn't recall ever having heard him laugh. Once again the two were silent for a long time. Tom gave William an odd look when the smaller Jeep edged a bit closer, dirt and rocks coming loose beneath his treads and tumbling down the slope to plunk into the water below.

William spoke again. He was staring straight ahead and fidgeting his tires with an uncharacteristic uneasiness.

"I guess everything will change tomorrow, you know?"

"Er, yeah."

Tom raised a brow. Not because it was a particularly odd thing to say, but because it was a particularly odd thing for _William _to say. He realized then that the other Jeep had gotten very close. So close he could feel the heat from his engine.

He suddenly flinched when he felt a heavily treaded tire wrap around his own. After a few seconds of stunned silence, he broke into sarcastic laughter.

"What the hell, Will?"

He could hear William gulp. The smaller Jeep did not remove his tire.

"If one of us were to -- " he started to say, but didn't get a chance to finish.

The moment William's antenna reached out to brush against Tom's, the bigger Jeep whirled around and punched him square in the grille, slipping on the slope slightly. William recoiled with a grunt of pain. A large rock that had been buried in the dirt on the side of the slope came loose, and he slid helplessly about half way down before he managed to stop himself.

"What are you, some kinda fggot?" Tom spat.

William scowled up at him. "No! I was just..!"

"You were puttin' the moves on me, you little creep! Wait'll everyone hears about this!" He turned to go.

"_Don't tell anyone_!" William gasped, and with a roaring engine laboured up the slope, grabbed hold of one of Tom's back wheels and yanked.

"Let go of me, you idiot!" Tom snarled, kicking his back wheel. The two of them slid to the bottom of the slope in a great shower of dirt; kicking, punching and biting. They landed in the rocks and water at the bottom, still locked together and fighting.

Tom slammed his weight onto William, whose breath left him with a loud wuff. Pinning the runt with his weight, he grabbed his teeth with a tire and started to wrench his jaw open. William howled in pain and tried to bite down, knowing Tom would break his jaw if he could. Tom pulled his tire back with a hiss when William's teeth started to cut into the rubber, and the smaller Jeep struggled to his tires with a splash and leaped at him, slugging him in the bumper.

The two boys fought like wild animals until the stream below them was a murky grey, tinged with pink, from their blood, oil, and spit. Tom collapsed against the vertical slope and William pinned him, kicking him in the gut. The bigger Jeep wretched and flailed his tires.

"No, _stop_, Will! Listen to me! I'm sorry!"

William stopped, panting, and let him go. Tom rose shakily to his tires. Blood trickled in a thin stream from his mouth.

"Chrysler, Will. You're crazy."

He regretted the words in an instant. William grabbed his bumper, which was already aching and tender, and wrenched him close, eyes impossibly wide.

"You tell _anyone_..!"

"I won't! I won't!"

The two stared at each other for a few seconds, then William let him go. Breathing heavily and moaning in pain, Tom revved his engine and heaved himself up the other side of the slope, vanishing into the tall grass. William found a clear spot in the stream, drank deeply, then struck the steep side of the hill with a tire, cursing.


	3. War Zone

**Flashbacks, Part 3**

**War Zone**

_(I've hesitantly written a battle scene. I realize that the idea of anthropomorphic vehicles getting blown to bits might be more humorous than horrifying I chuckled while writing it, I won't lie, but I did the best I could, since it fits in with the story and it was fun to write. I imagine that weapons used in warfare in this world would be many times more powerful than weapons people use against other people, for obvious reasons.)_

Dust hung thick in the air. Even though it was the middle of the day, the sun was obscured, leaving anyone below the choking debris in murky darkness. The ruined city was like another planet. All outside sound was obscured by constant gunfire and explosions.

On the sheltered side of a mountain of rubble huddled three Jeeps, their olive paint turned white by the dust that constantly showered over them as the very ground itself seemed to shake.

One of them was trembling and sobbing. An enormous scar ran across his bumper. The old wound had nearly sheared it off, but it had long since healed.

"Where are the reinforcements? They should be here by now," he said in a trembling voice.

"Just stay put," hissed the smallest of the Jeeps. "If you break cover you're done for."

Something whistled overhead, then the ground shook. Clods of dirt, heavy stones, and more dust rained down on them. A deep rumbling started in the distance, drawing slowly closer, until the sound of something massively heavy crunching everything in its path could be heard. The toc-toc-toc-toc of a cannon being aimed, then an earsplitting bang and a flash of light.

"Tanks. There are tanks here," whimpered the terrified Jeep. "They'll run us over or blow us up. We don't stand a chance. The only way we can survive this is if we run for it."

William put his tires around the other Jeep in what looked like an embrace, but it was really a desperate effort to keep him from fleeing. He gritted his teeth and held him down with all his might.

"Don't be an idiot!" he said, tires scrabbling against the rocks beneath him as the other Jeep struggled. "The others will be here soon. Stay, put."

He tensed at the sound of a rifle being cocked, and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was the other Jeep who was aiming at him.

"Get off me," he said, tears spilling to his hood. "I don't wanna shoot you."

William had no choice. He let the other man go, and he the the Jeep who remained watched as he replaced his rifle in the holder on his side and took off at full speed. There was an echoing crack, and his axles gave out beneath him. He fell to the ground in a violent spasm, blood and oil spraying the ground below. The two soldiers watched in helpless horror as he gave a final twitch and lay still, a dark puddle growing beneath his lifeless body.

William groaned, but neither of them said anything. They went back to huddling beneath the rubble, waiting. They heard more shots, and an American voice crying out, then silence. No gunshots, no tanks, no voices. Thirty seconds ticked by, a minute, two minutes. The only thing that moved was the white dust, still falling.

"Maybe they're gone," whispered William's companion. The smaller Jeep watched, holding his breath, as the other soldier moved, inch by inch, to look past the wall of cinder blocks, foundation, twisted metal and mortar. At first nothing happened. They almost had time to breathe sight of relief.

Then simultaneously glanced down as something fell before the soldier's tires.

"GET BACK HERE!" William bellowed, but it was too late. The grenade exploded, and William watched as the back end of the other Jeep, all that he could see, slumped weakly. He grabbed him and wrenched him backwards with all his might, and the bigger Jeep collapsed on his side. William screeched in horror.

Half of his hood had been blown clean off, revealing the still working engine beneath, as well as a hideous inner view of his lip-less teeth and cheek-less mouth, gaping and dribbling. They made eye contact, the other Jeep still alive, before he let out a sickening gurgle and died, his eyes still staring. William whirled around to face the other way and vomited. When he was done he crouched in his own mess and moaned in terror.

An immense crushing sound blocked out everything else, even the gunfire. William came to his senses in time to see a giant shadow fall over him. He instinctively rolled forward, just in time to escape the crushing treads of the tank that had rolled over what had been his shelter with a rending screeching and roaring.

The Jeep bolted, knowing now that he had no other option. His heart lept when he heard voices barking orders in English from just beyond the dust cloud.

"I'm here!" he called in a hoarse voice. He had barely gotten the words out when he was violently jarred. He rolled and landed on his side, momentarily deaf. It wasn't until he tried to move that the pain hit him. He whimpered briefly, then started to scream. Something was terribly wrong with his right back wheel, his axle, and his back end, but he had no mirror to see it with.

He was suddenly surrounded by American troops. Someone was hollering for a medic, and someone else had their tires on his hood, caressing him and telling him to hold on. The last thing William was aware of was a great wind that blew the dust away, the heavy beating of helicopter wings, and a merciful shot of morphine.


	4. Robert

**Flashbacks, Part 4**

**Robert**

_I woke up to the sound of beeping, a bright white light, and the sensation that I was floating on a cloud. I thought at first I must be dead, but then I remembered that I was going to hell, and I knew I was alive.  
I heard a soft voice. I couldn't tell if the voice belonged to man or a woman, but it immediately gave me the feeling that I was in the presence of someone I could trust. They towered over me and said something I couldn't understand before I blacked out again._

The next few days were pretty much the same. During those brief moments of wakefulness, in which I could see and hear but could not move or speak, I learned that my caretaker was a medic who seemed to have taken a personal interest in my recovery. They were male, and a helicopter.

I remember the first time we made eye contact. For me it was an important moment. He had dark brown eyes you could get lost in, as queer as that sounds, and one look at him and I knew, and I think he did too. Either that or I was drooling on myself and he thought I was pitiful, I was pumped full of enough drugs to make you envious.

I don't know if it had been a week or two or even three when I was released. They wanted to send me to a place where I wouldn't have to fight anymore, but I didn't want to hear it. What the hell could a guy like me do if he wasn't fighting? It was all I knew how to do, that and follow orders. I had spent years working up to this and like hell I was going to scamper off like a pansy after one measly injury.

When I first rolled out of bed I fell over and knocked over a table full of medical equipment. I was healed, but all the strength had gone out of my body and my axle. I would need time to recover, the doctor told me. I would be allowed to stay here until then.

I asked his name and he said it was Robert. It sounded like such a tough name for such a feminine guy. I asked him what the hell he was doing in the war, and he said he didn't have much of a choice, but he was glad he was working as a medic, because he could probably never hurt anyone. I would have felt less of him for saying that if he hadn't just saved my life and nursed my pathetic self back to health. I learned later that he was no coward, after I was bit older and bit less stupid.

I was assigned a small room that was more like a closet and allowed fuel rations and a bit of solid food each day. There were a dozen or so other stubborn bastards there in the same situation as me, and at night we would gather outside in this old foundation, probably used to hold up some kind of factory or school; the brick walls had been blown to bits long ago and the fighting had long since moved on. We'd exchange stories about how we got into the conditions we were in and make bets on how many Nazis we would kill once we were well enough to get out of there.

Robert definitely knew what he was doing, because to this day you can't tell I had my wheel and a bit of my axle blown off. If I'm on it for a long time sometimes it starts to ache, but other than that it's like it never happened.

Anyway. I was out one night long after everyone else had retired, just looking at the stars. I remember noticing that there were fallen leaves beneath me, and that fall was coming. Just as that thought popped into my head some son of a bitch had crept up behind me, and he said "Looks like summer's coming to an end." I would have punched his lights out if it hadn't been Robert.

We talked awhile. I think he asked me more questions in the span of an hour or two than I had been asked in my entire life. I remember being so damn struck by the fact that he wanted to know about me, and what I had to say, and what my opinions where on things. I tried to talk back but I must have sounded like a complete fool.

He bid me good night and I went to bed shortly afterwards. We started to make a habit of it, you know, just chatting about this and that after the other soldiers had gone to bed. After a while, though, I started to get antsy about it. I mean, I was pretty sure no one would notice, and Robert was a well respected guy, considering more than half of us owed him our lives in one way or another, but you know, he had a certain, er, charm, I guess you could say. I looked forward to our meetings probably a tad more than I should have. I still wonder if in the end I shamed him, and if he would have been better off had I let my feelings slide. After all, what had it earned me last time?

This time I had a distinctly different impression. I'm pretty sure while we were talking we both knew, and were both wondering if the other knew, and were both wondering if we could get away with it. One night while we were talking I just started wandering, and I let him follow. We didn't speak, well, there really wasn't any need to. We made our way to the woods and I noticed I could see my breath for the first time since early spring last year.

I thought I might lose my nerve when he moved in close to me and touched me. Now listen, you tell anyone about this, and you're in for it! This is for your ears only, because I'm not one of those sissy fggots; but the way he touched me, I think it was the first time anyone had touched me without intent to hurt me, except maybe the nurse patching up my cuts and bruises when I was a toddler. I was totally lost then, and our little chats at night turned into more than chats, until the time came when I had to get back out there and start fighting again.

Once I was in the field again I started to write him. He taught me a lot about writing properly then; I could barely string a sentence together and had trouble spelling my own name a first, but I got better thanks to him. Sometimes he would inform me that he would be in the area for one reason or another, and I would sneak off at night and we would meet. We used to talk all this bullcrap about how we'd find a place together once the war was over, even though I think we both knew better.

All through the fall and into December we met. Sometimes he would look so washed out, so pale and so hopeless, and I knew that I was an idiot for thinking of him as a coward when we first met. Being a medic was probably the hardest damn job in the military, and I think he felt it personally whenever someone in his care passed away, and there must have been hundreds of them. Why he stuck with me I'll never know. Sometimes I think I'm responsible for the way he ended up in some small way.

The last time I saw him was before the Battle of the Bulge. You know I'll talk about how that was the day I distinguished myself, won my first medal, and got promoted. I met him in the middle of the night, in the cold, before I headed to battle. Out of all the days that haunt me that one haunts me the most. It seemed like someone died every second, and the smell of hot blood and gunpowder and smoke still visits me in my dreams sometimes.

I didn't see him die. I don't even know how he died. I like to think it was bravely, and I like to think it was over fast for him. I knew he was dead when I didn't get any more letters from him. When the letters were handed out the first time, I didn't want to believe it, and told myself I would get one in the next delivery, but of course I didn't. I don't think I've ever been so devastated in my life, before or since.

I started training soldiers days later. Within a month I was known as the meanest sergeant you could possibly wind up training with. I made monsters out of those kids, and I was damn proud of it. It would have been cruel for me to let them leave as anything but War Machines.

I didn't meet anyone quite like that for another 20 or so years. 


	5. Fillmore

**Flashbacks, Part 5**

**Fillmore**

The midday sun beat down on William as he scouted the barren, empty expanse of desert. The only thing that stuck out on the monotonous landscape for miles around were hills and cacti, but he still seemed keenly interested in everything below his tires.

It was 1962. William was now an honored veteran. He had been promoted to sergeant in the military, and hadn't seen much action since the horrific Battle of the Bulge, spending the rest of his years in the forces training new recruits; Jeeps brought in from families in America, and those raised in Europe specifically for the purpose of fighting, as he had been.

Once the war ended, it didn't take Sarge long to decide to open a military surplus shop on Route 66, a popular tourist destination. He didn't know how to go on with his life without some kind of connection to the military, and despite all that he had gone through, he was a staunchly patriotic American.

He was currently getting the lay of the land, searching for a spot where he could keep his off-road skills in tune. He had wandered far from his town, Radiator Springs, which was now lost in the heat waves that shimmered wherever you turned. He did a double take when he spotted something odd on the horizon, and approached it cautiously. Whatever it was was a bright shade of aquamarine, jutting from a bit of a dip in the ground. It wasn't until he reached out to poke it tentatively with a heavily treaded tire that he realized it was alive. It stirred and groaned a bit, then fell still once more.

"Er, hello?" Sarge said, rolling to the other side of the depression to get a good look at the vehicle. His expression changed to the picture of disgust at what he saw.

A Volkswagen bus lay in the dirt, tires splayed at his sides, his flowered, rainbowed, hippy-dippy sides covered in a layer of dirt Chrysler knows how many months old. His eyes were closed, and if Sarge hadn't just heard him groan, he would have taken him for dead.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" Sarge demanded. This seemed to get the other vehicle's attention, if only somewhat. He stirred and opened his eyes, which turned slowly to Sarge.

"Hunh?" was all he said, his voice thick as if his tongue were too big for his mouth. Sarge only now noticed that he had a thin trail of blood running down his side, and one of his mirrors had been torn clean off somehow.

"Are you all hopped up on something, hippie? Why are you all the way out here sleeping in the dirt with your damn mirror missing?"

"Not sleepin'...Hey man, you got any water? It's hot out here..."

Sarge screwed up his face.

"Answer my questions and maybe I'll give you some. What are you doing out here?"

"Layin' in the dirt, hah hah..."

"Why?"

A long pause.

"I think I'm done with LSD, maaan..."

Sarge looked personally offended by the hippie's choice of recreation.

"Aw man, bad trip..."

The big bus started to haul himself from the dirt, but his axles trembled and the strength went out of him. He flopped down again, panting, and Sarge detached the emergency fuel can he always carried and started to unscrew it. The bus' good mirror perked up at the sound.

"You got anything to drink..?" he repeated.

"Yes, hold on," Sarge said grudgingly, then held the nozzle to his lips. The bus drank clumsily, spilling a bit of it on his bumper, and Sarge recoiled in disgust.

"You stink."

"Man I dunno how long I've been out here. Days maybe... a week...no soap out here, huh huh..."

"I'm going to ask you one more time how you got out here, and if you don't answer me quickly I'm going to leave."

For the first time the odd hippie seemed to register some concern.

"The cops, man..." he drawled. "I was drivin' out here, along Route 66, I dunno where exactly, don't remember... miles from here... And I noticed some cops followin' me..."

"Oh, I wonder why."

"And I had, like, drugs on me. Not like a joint or whatever, man, I had baggies of shrooms and some LSD... And I knew they knew, right, and I pulled over, 'cause I didn't wanna go to jail, and I --" here he actually giggled "-- and I ate it all, man, in a few seconds, just swallowed it, 'cause dude, I'm not spendin' the rest of my life in jail, I'm not a criminal..."

"Actually, I do think this makes you a criminal."

The bus ignored him and kept telling his story.

"So I guess they didn't notice me horkin' everything down, and they let me go, Scott free, only problem was in about fourty five minutes, I was reelin'! Didn't know up from down, seein' shit, I dunno how long I just wandered around in the desert, lost all track of where I was goin'..."

"What happened to your mirror?"

The hippie rolled a bit in the dirt, still breathing heavily and clearly uncomfortable.

"Oh, I dunno... I dunno if it was real or not, but I saw a monster." Sarge snorted. "Big and red with smoke billowin' all around his head and blades under his face... I was just wandering through a field looking for a place to crash when he came roarin' out at me, just about pissed myself... I dunno if I lost my mirror to the fence post or to the monster, but it's still lyin' back there somewhere, unless he ate it..."

"Oh, that's Frank. He's not a monster, he's a combine. Well, maybe he is a monster. So, I wonder how much of a reward I would get for turning you into the Sheriff. Are you a drug dealer?"

The hippie tried to pull himself to his tires again, his frame rattling with the effort.

"No, no...I'm just passin' through, I was just going out to have a little fun, could happen to anyone, y'know, I'm a good guy..."

He managed to stand, but he didn't go anywhere. Sarge suspected that he could not, and looked at his tires. His axles were trembling with the effort of holding up his considerable bulk, and one of his back tires was flat.

"Good. Just pass on through, then, and don't come back. The last thing we need is a hippie invasion in Radiator Springs. You never see just one hippie, before long you'll be breeding like rabbits and having love-ins and peace rallies and filling the town with the smell of pot."

Sarge turned to go, then, but when he had gone about 100 feet guilt caused him to turn around. He sighed when he saw the bus had lay back down again and closed his eyes. He drove back to him, and the bus squinted up at him. His deep brown eyes caused Sarge to pause for a moment.

"I think you need medical attention. We don't have a local doctor in the town, but I have enough knowledge to get you patched up, and then you can head on your way."

The bus broke into a wide, thankful smile. "Oh, thanks man. My name's Fillmore."

"...Sarge."

The Jeep pulled up next to the bus, grille wrinkling, and helped to haul him to his tires. He supported him as they drove back to his hut. As they rounded the corner and headed down the driveway to the door, the bus suddenly stopped short and stared with wide eyes at the ground.

"What's your problem?" Sarge said, and Fillmore responded my vomiting on the cement.

"Oh, for the love of..." He pressed the button to open the door, ignoring Fillmore's mumbled apologies. "Just get inside. Chrysler." He washed the mess with the hose then followed. The bus had slumped like a useless sack against one of the shelves in the store.

Sarge got to work fixing him up, giving him more fuel, a new tire, and cleaning and bandaging the stump that used to be his mirror. It was clear upon closer inspection that the bus had been dehydrated and had long since run out of fuel, and probably wouldn't have survived where he had been much longer.

"There," he said once Fillmore had finished his fuel. "Now you can be on your way."

The bus' face fell, but then he smiled a small smile.

"Thanks, Sarge. I was like, totally gonna be a goner if it weren't for you."

"Don't make me regret it."

The bus departed without another word, but it wasn't long before Sarge saw him again, poking around in the empty property next door that night. The hippie waved one of his little tires at him.

"Hey man! Do you make good business that store a' yours?"

Sarge groaned inwardly.

"No, no. Terrible business. Barely any customers. Horrible spot."

"Think I might set up shop here... I was lookin' for a place to set up an organic fuel taste-in, ya know? This town looks like it could use something different." He wasn't dumb enough to miss just how busy it was during the day. "Maybe like, fate or whatever brought me here."

Sarge muttered something about leaving him out in the desert to die, and went back inside.


	6. New Years

**Flashbacks, Part 6**

**New Years**

December 31sr, 1969

What an absolutely horrendous New Years Eve this was turning out to be.

A freak storm had hit Radiator Springs. Heavy clouds blotted out the sun, rain fell in torrents, and high winds whipped debris into the air and skittering across the roads. Those intent on celebrating, weather be damned, had holed up in Flo's V8 Cafe, the rattling doors of which had been locked and barricaded against the wind.

It was crowded inside, but not terribly so. A plastic table had been erected in the middle of the cafe so everyone could gather around instead of being broken apart sitting at the smaller tables. Drinks and junk food had been set in copious amounts, along with plastic noisemakers, confetti, and other party items.

Big Al, a giant tow truck and Mater's mentor, stood jabbering with his apprentice over a beer, empty cans of which were strewn about their tires. Lizzie and Stanley were sharing some wine, along with Doc, a new arrival, and Sheriff, who had taken a swift liking to him. Sarge stood moodily to one side, nursing a screwdriver, while Fillmore tried unsuccessfully to chat him up.

"Hey, you think that screwdriver'll get you messed up? Maaan, I usually drink 'em like, 50-50..." he looked over at the table. The brownies he had brought for the event had been left untouched. "I wonder why no one's eatin' em..." he said with a frown. "You want a brownie, sirdude? I baked em myself, they're vegan, good for ya..."

Sarge's eyes were bleary and he stared moodily at the power lines whipping in the wind outside. "You're lucky Sheriff hasn't eaten any of them yet. Ugh, thank Chrysler the sixties are coming to an end," he said, before taking another pull of his drink.

"Hey man, they're clean, cross my heart."

"Even if they're clean – which I doubt -- who the hell wants vegan brownies? What's a brownie without eggs anyway?"

Fillmore's reply was cut short by Big Al.

"Hey, the count-down is startin'!"

Flo picked up the remote for the TV mounted on the wall behind the counter, and turned up the volume. Everyone counted in unison, yelling "ONE!" at the tops of their lungs and then throwing confetti, sounding noisemakers, and clinking their drinks of choice together just as a loud rumble of thunder made the walls vibrate, and a lighting illuminated the sky in a white flicker.

Sarge, who had initially been counting with the rest of them, shrunk back against the wall and stared with an intensely concentrated expression straight ahead. Fillmore, concerned, patted him on the side.

"Hey man, little loud for ya?"

Sarge pushed Fillmore's tire away with a violence that startled the hippie. The Jeep finished his drink in one swift gulp, set the glass heavily on one of the tables close to the wall, and slipped through the crowd, out the door, and into the night.

Fillmore, for once, felt a sense of urgency, and drove after him. No one seemed to notice as they chatted loudly, drank more, and laughed, and Fillmore had no desire to ruin the night, so he crept out quietly.

The bus slid slightly across the wet cement as a strong gust of wind hammered into him, and he caught a glimpse of Sarge's spare rounding the corner, heading in the opposite direction of his hut. Fillmore, more concerned than ever now, followed. He called after him in the dark, but his voice was swallowed by the wind and rain. He put on his high-beams and aimed them at Sarge, flicking them on and off, but either the Jeep was ignoring them or mistook them for more flashes of lightning.

Where in the world was he headed?

Fillmore was lazy, that was no secret, but he was also incredibly stubborn, and he knew he owed Sarge his life, so he pushed onward after him, worried for the Jeep's safety, however much Sarge may hate him. Being a much swifter vehicle, he easily caught up to him, and the veteran whirled on him and stared in surprise.

"Where ya goin'!?" Fillmore yelled over the wind. Sarge scowled and did not respond, so Fillmore continued:

"It's not safe out here!"

Sarge's expression was impossible to read. He stared at Fillmore intently as seeing him for the first time, then nodded and followed him. When they reached the spot between their two homes, Fillmore grinned at him through the rain.

"You drunk yet?!"

Sarge shook his hood. Fillmore chuckled and beckoned for him to follow.

"We'll fix that, man!"

Sarge cracked a small smile and followed him into his dome. As the hippie turned on a lava lamp, he saw through the dim, pink light that it was a simple affair, a rug in the middle of the floor, a small cooking area, a large beanbag bed and a record player among the things inside.

Without a word Fillmore went into one of the cabinets and produced a bottle of vodka, which he mixed with some of his tangy organic fuel. He offered the drink to Sarge, who immediately took a gulp.

"It's not New Years unless you're smashed. So what the hell were you doing anyway, man?" he said, settling down on the mat with his own drink.

"None of your business."

Fillmore frowned. He became serious.

"C'mon, man. Y'know, this town is so full of love. Everyone here loves one another, it's like a big family. Except you. You just hole yourself up in your shop all day and talk to people as little as possible. What's up, Sarge?"

"You've got some nerve."

"That's 'cause I know how sweet you are, man," he said, using that word entirely for the sake of Sarge's embarrassment, which was apparent. "You dragged a dirty hippie outta the desert and patched him up and probably saved him, ya know?"

"I gave you a goddamn drink and you won't let it slide." He had almost finished his drink, and Fillmore mixed him another with a chuckle. He didn't pursue the issue further, and the two drank long into the morning, until Sarge was definitely drunk.

An idea struck Fillmore suddenly, and he reached for a bong hidden in the corner.

"Hey maaan, drinkin's great and all, but if you wanna feel reeeaal good..."

Sarge glanced at the instrument dully and made face.

"I don't think so."

Fillmore chuckled, deep and slurred, and smoked a bowl while Sarge continued to drink. When he had finished he lay flat on the carpet like an over sized stoned seal. His eyes fell to Sarge's flank, and he noticed he was shivering from the rainwater still clinging to him. Without a word the bus rose and picked up a folded towel from a box in the kitchen area. He brought it to Sarge and started to swipe it down his sides, drying him.

Sarge recoiled. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You're cold, man..." He drove forward again, drunk, stoned, and stubborn, and continued to dry him with gentle movements. Sarge shifted uncomfortably but did not move as the bus tried once again to pry some information out of him.

"Do you have like, flashbacks or something, dude?" he asked, too intoxicated to realize his question may have been a bit blunt. Sarge made a surprised noise, but Fillmore kept talking. "'Cause like I see you get all uncomfortable whenever there's a crowd or loud noises, or somethin'. Were you having one at the party, and is that why you left?" He moved to his other side and continued to dry.

"Yes, you happy?" Sarge slurred. Fillmore smiled wide and tossed the towel to the side once he had finished.

"Happy that you're talkin' to me, not that you have those bad trips, though... That doesn't explain why you took off into the rain, though..."

"I... I sometimes lose my head. I just wanted to get away from the noise, I guess I wasn't thinking about where I was going."

Sarge suddenly found himself pulled into a wet, smelly hug. The hippie wrapped his small tires around the Jeep's much larger ones and pulled him close, breathing his alcohol and pot-laden breath on his grille. Sarge gritted his teeth.

"Ah hah, oh-kay, Fillmore, talking has progressed to touching a little fast," he said, and dislodged the big bus. Fillmore flopped back down on the large rug.

"Aww, hey, I didn't mean it like that," he said, then yawned. "I'm just being a spokesbus for the town and lettin' you know we love you and you don't need to be such a grumpy bastard all the time, man."

Soon after, he had fallen asleep, and Sarge lay opposite him and watched him. He was do drunk the room spun and his body felt weak. He rested his bumper on his front tires and went to sleep on the rug facing the bus, empty cans and a bong strewn about them.


	7. Medals

**Flashbacks, Part 7**

**Medals**

"_It would have been cruel for me to let them leave as anything more than War Machines. I didn't meet anyone quite like that for another 20 years."_

As I ended my story, the bus opposite me looked at me with a curious expression, as if that couldn't possibly be the end, and please, go on. His eyes squinted at me and his mouth hung open slightly, and I cleared my throat loudly to see if it would snap him out of it.

"Whozzat?" he said when I didn't continue, smiling slightly. Stupidly.

I rolled my eyes. We were in my living room. Grey carpets, a black and white wooden television set against the west wall, standing in front of the single window. To the north was a dresser, which I had opened to take out the box of my medals.

An uncomfortable but not overly severe flashback had led to him becoming inquisitive about my past experiences.

I had been arranging the products on the shelves in the store, as I did every day, as well as making sure there wasn't a speck of dust brave enough to settle there, when Fillmore had knocked over a box of light bulbs. The stunned beatnik had backed up over them in a fuddled attempt to pick them up, and at his snail's pace I could hear each one of them break, pop, pop, pop.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not a nut case. I'm not a coward, and I'm not a whimpering sissy who goes into shock every time he hears a loud noise. On any other day the same thing could have happened and I would have been nothing but annoyed. I've got to be in the right – or wrong – place in my mind for something like that to set me off, and it just so happens I had been thinking about one ordeal or the other when that noise went off like gunshots in my brain.

I lost myself a bit. If you've ever struggled on the edge of fainting, you might understand this in a mechanical sense. Everything seemed far away, and my peripheral vision faded to a murky grey. I was floating, though in actuality Fillmore told me later I was wobbling like a drunk, and he was half expecting me to tip over. I could hear shouts and more gunshots, whizzing past my sides. I felt sick, and then it was over, like a bad dream.

Yes, that was it. Sorry if you were expecting me to grab my rifle and go on a murderous rampage.

When my vision returned, however, I thought maybe it wasn't over, because I could see Robert's brown eyes looking down at me with that familiar, gentle concern.

"You okay, man?"

I stood up straight, cleared my throat, picked up the duster and resumed working. "Fine."

"Sorry about the light bulbs, sirdude. I'll pay for 'em."

"Light bulbs..? Oh. Don't worry about it, hippie. They're cheap. Just clean them up, and for Ford's sake don't leave any little bits of glass lying around to get stuck in my treads later."

Fillmore saluted. "Yes, sir!" he said, and I turned my grille away and smiled. As I continued to arrange items and dust, I heard the sound of glass shards being swept into a dustpan.

"You ever gonna tell me about what happened to you?" he said after a while. Infuriatingly stubborn.

"Why should I?" I grumbled, half hoping he wouldn't hear and would just drop it, but once again the hippie proved he was more on the ball than you would think.

"'Cause I dunno what to do when you do stuff like that. When you get all weird. It like, worries me, man. You're my best buddy and I wanna know how to act when you have one of them things."

"One of _those_ things, Fillmore." I could hear him disposing of the broken glass and putting the dustpan away. He was at my side again.

"You're in my way," I muttered.

"What are you afraid of?"

I paused. Then I set down the duster carefully and fixed Fillmore with what I hoped was a piercing glare. "What do you mean, afraid?"

"I'm not gonna force you to tell me, man, but, like, you can, you know?"

His expression looked so genuinely concerned, so genuinely _sad_, even, that I gave in. I took him into the living room and showed him my medals. I didn't tell him everything. He didn't need to know about my father. He didn't need to know about Tom.

So I told him about Robert.

"So, who was it?" he repeated. "Who did you meet 20 years later?"

I fixed him with a meaningful look, but he just kept that same smile plastered on his face. Either he didn't get it or he just wanted to hear me say it.

"I'm not giving you the satisfaction," I said, and he managed to squint a little more, and that infuriating wrinkle of the Volkswagen symbol in the centre of his face told me he had been fcking with me the whole time. He was sharper than most people gave him credit for.

"So, is that it?" he said, shifting a bit in his relaxed position on the carpet.

"You know the rest. I was promoted to sergeant, the war ended, and I moved here. You've plagued me ever since."

The big bus was holding the wooden box of medals close to himself, and he looked down at them again. He pulled one out, hooking it around one of his small, smooth tires that he didn't bother to replace, even when they had no treads to speak of. Waste not, reduce, reuse, recycle, blah blah blah.

"You forgot this one," he said, lifting it a bit as if I needed to see it to know what he was talking about. "How'd you get this one?"

I looked down at the medal, strung on a purple ribbon with a white stripe down the centre. The medal itself was silver, with seven grille-slot shaped holes in it, and two circular holes on either side, close to the top. It had been designed to look like a Jeep's grille, and it was the only medal I had received that I wasn't proud of.

I let the bus fiddle with it as I spoke. "I got that one during the Battle of the Bulge. It was my first medal. I received it for towing a tank to safety. He had lost a tread and was going in circles, and I removed him from the range of enemy fire."

"Woaah. You pulled a tank?"

I nodded, unable to stop my bumper from twitching upward slightly. "Right."

I left it at that. You're probably wondering why I wasn't proud of what I had done. Well, it wasn't that I wasn't proud of what I had done, it was that I wasn't proud of what I hadn't done. I know Robert died in that battle, even if I don't know how, and I know that his life was draining away somewhere while I was towing a complete stranger to safety. The grille on that medal looks more like a nasty sneer to me than anything else.

I must have paused, or shown some emotion, because when I looked back up Fillmore was inches from me, looking down at me with a stunned but none the less concerned expression. He didn't understand the concept of boundaries or personal space, with me most of all. I gently pushed him away with a tire, and he slid backwards easily.

"You have to stop doing that," I said. I wonder what cruel twist of fate had decided to plunk those dark brown eyes in that stupid hippie's head. Fillmore seemed nothing but infuriatingly amused by my discomfort, and he chuckled the hoarse chuckle of a veteran pot smoker.

"You need to relax, man," he said. Oh Chrysler, here it comes. I tapped my tire impatiently against the carpet, raised an eye ridge, and looked at him with a "get on with it" expression. "Do you know what I do when I need to relax?"

"I refuse to partake in such things."

Fillmore stared at me, confused, before the smile returned. "Noo no. I go to the beach. I think you should go to the beach." The hopeful look in his eyes left no doubt in my mind that by you he meant we.

"I don't enjoy crowds, you know that," I countered immediately. Apparently the bus didn't pick up on my _end of conversation_ tone, and kept going.

"You don't have to put up with crowds, man. I know this nice little spot on the coast. You and I should, like, go. I've been meaning to myself, but you really seem like you need a vacation."

"What in the world makes you think I would go to the beach with you, hippie? Honestly!"

He looked downcast for only a brief second, damn him. "'Cause we're buddies."

"According to you."

"For someone who isn't my friend, you just told me a looot a' personal stuff, Sarge. Think of it as me paying you back for saving my life..."

"You just won't let that go..."

"I'll pay for everything, gas, snacks, the works. I'll even buy you a case of beer. And I won't do any smoking."

I regarded him for a long time. Thought about the situation over and over. There were no excuses left, were there? Business at the store was lousy, the weather was disgustingly hot, and I wouldn't have to pay a cent. I sighed.

"All right. I'll go with you for the day. But do not," I said, jabbing a tire at him "under any circumstances gloat about it, gossip about it, or take it the wrong damn way, do you understand?"

He held out his smooth tire, and I clasped mine around it tightly and shook, jarring him up and down.

"No problem, man!"


	8. Nazi

Flashbacks, Part 8

Nazi

Germany, 1940

It was pitch dark. Not the kind of dark you get on a summers night when the moon and stars are out, but completely dark. None of the soldiers sleeping in the grass, most of them leaning on their supply bags, would have seen a thing had they woke up and looked around without their headlights on. The night sky was heavy with black clouds that blotted out everything.

One of the Jeeps did happen to wake up. The smallest of them groaned and rolled over, before righting himself and flicking on his headlights. He and the rest of the men were on a mission to locate a supposed secret bunker in the area and make it safe for less experienced troops to traverse through the area in a few days time.

Right now, however, William was only getting up to take a piss.

The Jeep headed into the bushes, switching his headlights off now that he had an image of the area in his head. He found a suitable spot, did his business, and was about to head back when he heard a faint noise from the bushes. It was almost like a whisper, or the wind, but the air was thick and humid, so that couldn't have been it.

Every logical thought in William's head and every lesson he had ever learned in training told the Jeep to go back to the others and tell them, or let it be. It was likely just an animal. But nothing about it made him afraid, only curious, so he brushed aside the bushes and peered forward, flicking on his headlights.

Nothing.

Something rustled to his right. He snapped his headlights in that direction, but still, nothing. If they were under attack by a group of soldiers, he would know it by now. Volkswagens weren't small, as a rule.

He followed the noise into the trees nearby. The clouds parted slightly, enough so that he could turn his headlights off and use the moonlight to navigate, though all he could see were vague silhouettes. There was that noise again. It sounded almost like a sigh. William's insides churned and his oil ran cold.

He grabbed for his rifle, only to realise with a wave of panic that he had left it behind.

Better go back. The Jeep turned around, keeping his engine off and creeping so as to avoid detection. It could still just be an animal, but something told him it wasn't. Then he smelled it. To someone used to combat the smell of blood was unmistakable, and it send every nerve in his body into overdrive.

He was suddenly aware of something breathing on him.

He darted away instinctively, just in time to keep the butt of a rifle from smashing into his eyes. He gaped in horror as a German soldier rolled from the bushes.

No, rolled wasn't the right word. He stumbled, lurching forward. His posture clearly said that he was wounded, and William realized with a glimmer of hope that he must have no bullets, otherwise he would be dead by now.

"Wollen wir das ruhig tun," the bus whispered, the two circling each other. The smell of blood was still strong. William knew he would have to stand and fight.

The sight of the other vehicle was entirely alien to him. This was not the first time he had been in combat, and he had seen the bastards from a distance before, but never this close. Maybe his flat face would have been laughable if this were a different situation. Right now it just made his teeth chatter. He lunged at the Volkswagen, his headlights revealing a red and grey paint job, dull like a forest in winter.

Immediately that rifle but was swung at him, thankfully missing his eyes and only putting a dent in his hood. William grabbed the front tire of the Nazi and twisted, tipping him over, but the round body of the other vehicle made it easy for him to right himself, and the two were soon wrestling for their lives. William pressed his large, heavy tire against the mouth of the bus, trying to smother him, and the Volkswagen turned away violently, his teeth tearing a chunk out of the thick rubber. William was in over his cab.

"HELP!" he bellowed. The bus realized with horror that the Jeep he was attacking was not alone and turned sharply, but he hissed in pain and stumbled. William realized now that the blood was coming from around his back axle. So that was where he was injured.

William grabbed at his back tire and twisted, and was rewarded by a loud roar of pain from the German. He was just in the process of pinning him in the dirt when the rest of his platoon arrived, rifles aimed.

"Ich ergebe mich, schießen Sie nicht!!" the bus cried out in panic, seconds before one of the Jeeps put a bullet between his eyes. William let his twitching body go, trembling. The lieutenant approached him with a livid scowl.

"What the hell is this, private William!? Have you gone sick in the head?"

"No, sir! I just came out here to take a piss and the goddamn bastard jumped out of nowhere."

"How do we know you didn't attract a whole army of them, private William?"

"Sir, unlikely, sir! He was injured and had no bullets. I think he either got lost or was left behind. He didn't put up much of a fight, to tell you the truth."

The lieutenant nudged the lifeless body with his tire and made a noise of disgust.

"Well, we better get moving. You may be right, private, but you may be wrong, and we can't risk it."

The platoon went back to the clearing to gather their supplies just as Sarge's alarm clock beeped out a good morning, and he reached out a tire to shut it off, looking out his bedroom window at the rising sun.


	9. Road Trip

**Flashbacks, part 9**

**Road Trip**

To say the dream had put him in a foul mood would be an understatement. The antique alarm clock forced out one last dying ring before it was crushed for the umpteenth -- and last -- time beneath Sarge's tire. The Jeep eyed it through heavily lidded, groggy eyes.

"Piece of shit," Sarge muttered, sweeping it into the trash with a wheel. It mirrored how he felt about himself sometimes: out of date, loud, and on the way out.

He rose and stretched, his axles and frame creaking back to life. With a heavy sigh he headed out into the main room of his hut and cracked open the fridge. Was seven AM too early for a beer? Like hell it was. He grabbed one, twisted it open, and drank nearly half of it in one swig.

"Up and at 'em, soldier," he said over the open bottle.

So, the beach. Fat chance the hippie was even out of bed yet. No, of course he wasn't. Sarge was fairly certain that reveille had become his own personal alarm clock, guaranteed to always go off on time. Sarge was a man of routine, however. Even routine infuriation.

Finishing his beer, he rolled to his own record player and started the music. Seemed like his neighbor was ahead of the game this morning. Hendrix started blaring a few seconds after, and Sarge held his tongue and his rage as he raised the flag. He turned in time to see the flat Volkswagen face appearing in the doorway to his dome. Fillmore shifted lazily on his tires and gave Sarge a small smile that was somewhere between teasing and friendly.

"Ready to go, are we?" Sarge grunted. He had expected the sight of Fillmore to bring back more memories of that dream, but no. That fat flowered face might be the same model, but the similarities ended there.

Fillmore's smile faded. "Uh, no," he said, then the smile crept back slowly. "Give me an hour? I'm the one packin' the stuff, remember. You just relax and let me take care of it."

"Fine, right," Sarge said, waving a tire. He felt as if he had been up running all night. "I'll just go have a beer," he added, too quietly for Fillmore to hear.

Heading back inside, Sarge wrapped his aerial around the neck of another beer and drove outside with it. He drove into the desert as the sun rose. The heat now was pleasant instead of unbearable.

It wasn't like Sarge to drink so early. Well, not usually. For one who chided his neighbor on using intoxication as a form of escapism, he did just that once in a while. The difference was the substance and the vehicles reaction. Two beers wouldn't hurt though.

He drank this beer at a much more reasonable pace. The mild heat and the dirt under his tires relaxed him. As he finished off the last remnants of his drink, he let it fall with a clunk into the sand.

Sarge's age didn't often show, and what he did next would be one of his well kept secrets. His restless night got the better of him, and the two beers and peace and quiet lulled him into a much needed nap.

_"I've seen tanks who wouldn't be able to out-drink you," the helicopter said to the Jeep._

_William scowled up at him. He wobbled and said nothing, so Robert continued._

_"Every time you get the chance lately you've been getting drunk. You know if your commanding officers knew about it you would be in for it. The rest of the boys get drunk, sure, but not like you."_

_"Don't tell me what to do, Robert! Chrysler. You're the one who should be sticking with his own platoon. You'll get demoted back to nursemaid if you're not careful."_

_Sounds of rowdy partying echoed from the bar. Loud male voices raised both in anger and laughter, glasses clinking together. It was rare that the soldiers got some time to relax in allied territory, and when the did they made the best of it. The noises were quiet from out in the woods, where William had wandered in his angry, drunken stupor and Robert had invariably followed like a pesky black fly._

_"I suppose there are a lot of things you would get in trouble for though, huh?" Robert said in his usual light voice, smiling fondly down at the Jeep._

_"Very funny!" William spat, and Robert's smile faded. There was genuine venom in his voice. William was grumpy at the best of times, and Robert knew he didn't feel like he fit in with the other Jeeps. In a superficial sense, sure. He wasn't bullied like he used to be after earning a reputation as one mean son of a bitch, but there was something that kept him away from them. The helicopter doubted if anyone noticed, even William._

_"Hey, all right, calm down, I was just kidding."_

_"So it's a joke to you?"_

_Robert tried not to roll his eyes. The little Jeep could be dramatic when he wanted to be._

_"I never said that," the helicopter said. "Maybe you should go back inside with the others."_

_"Oh, want to get rid of me, do you?" William was swaggering, trying to puff himself up, clearly looking for a fight. Robert couldn't help but chuckle. William would go out unarmed and pick a fight with twelve Nazis armed to the teeth if you put enough brew in him._

_"Don't you fuckin' laugh at me!" William snorted, and plowed toward the helicopter, who hovered upward like a dragonfly just out of his reach and smiled calmly down at him. "Scared, huh?" William scowled up at him._

_"Don't hurt yourself, Will," Robert said, though the beating of his own blades drowned out his voice. He carefully landed, but William's wrath was far from spent, and he was quickly dealt a very painful punch to the nose._

_"Chrysler! Will, you've got a whole army of Germans out there to beat up, and you're picking on me?"_

_He winced as Will approached him again, reeking of beer and a Jeep that hadn't had a good wash in weeks, but this time all the soldier did was lean drunkenly on him._

_"I think I'm the smallest one there," he slurred, and Robert couldn't help but laugh again. He stifled it at the growling in William's engine._

_"Sorry, sorry. What brought on a comment like that? Come on. Talk to me."_

_William sighed heavily, gave a half-hiccup._

_"Just something I noticed."_

_Robert didn't say anything. He knew more about William's life growing up than the Jeep probably knew he had told him, as he had been drunk every time. It seemed the only time he really opened up to him was when he was too drunk to care. The helicopter knew what the simple comment had meant, and didn't feel the need to push William further._

_"You've had enough to drink tonight," he said instead. William only grunted in reply. With a crunching of rocks and shrubs, the Jeep lowered himself to the ground right where he was._

_"I'll sleep it off," he muttered._

_Robert looked up. He was sure neither could be seen from the bar, and soldiers left for the night enough that no one would care. A good many of them would be gone to brothels or out looking for drugs or something to occupy themselves with before they had to head out again. In a way Robert was glad Sarge was the odd one out. The helicopter lay down next to him, dragging a bit of branches down with him in his blades._

_"Quiet down up there," William growled._

_"Oh, okay. Sorry sir," Robert said, smiling._

"Uhhh, Sarge? Hey buddy, don't want to sleep the day away, do we?"

Sarge snapped awake at the sound of a deep voice, and turned to look at Fillmore standing next to him, trailer full of beach supplies in tow. The empty beer bottle fell as his tire knocked against it. Fillmore looked slowly down at it, then slowly back up at Sarge, lips pressed tightly together. His brain worked slowly, and he decided not to comment.

"I was just resting my eyes," Sarge said, and Fillmore shrugged his frame.

"Well, let's go rest 'em at the beach, sirdude," he said. Sarge nodded, and they headed to the main road. After driving in silence for a while, they came to a fork in the road. Sarge eyed the sign that pointed to the highway, and was about to open his mouth when Fillmore picked the smaller road, which was all the old Jeep was capable of.

Sarge was surprised to find that the trip was not as painful as he thought it would be. His nightmare was a thing of the past as the sun rose higher in the sky, and he listened as Fillmore droned on about the plant life that grew along the side of the road. Sarge had no idea how such information could ever be useful, but he was impressed that the hippie had managed to store so much information inside his empty head.

An hour, and then two passed. They passed through a small town just as noon hit, and the two pulled into a small gas station.

"Are we close to the coast?" Sarge said. "Let's have a look at the map."

"Map? Uhh, no map," Fillmore said. "I've been out here too many times to need a map. I would say it's about forty minutes from here, though. I just thought I would get us some cold drinks and let my tires cool off. Cool?"

"Er, yes. That's...cool, Fillmore."

The bus snickered and coasted up to the counter where a battered but happy looking Buick was reading a paper. She looked up at them.

"What can I get you boys?"

"I'm in the mood for a slushy. How about you, Sarge?"

Sarge looked around the small convenience store area. He was never one to enjoy candy or treats of any kind, and didn't know what half of the things on sale were like. "I'll have what he's having," he said finally. He watched as Fillmore paid, and almost protested, but thought better of it. He would buy the bus something later to make up for it.

"But she didn't give you anything," Sarge whispered to Fillmore as the bus turned around and headed to the other side of the store.

"Wow, Sarge, you don't get out much, do you? Not much of a sweets kinda guy, eh?"

Sarge thought for a moment, watching as Fillmore selected two big plastic cups from a stack next to a machine with nozzles.

"I've bought those black licorice pipes a few times," the Jeep said, and Fillmore widened his eyes and turned down the side of his mouth slightly.

"Oh awesome," he said in a monotone, filling his cup with three different slushy flavours. "Here, you try."

Sarge followed his example, though he only selected the blue flavour. They coasted outside and sat under an awning to drink.

"Hey man, check it out!" Fillmore said, and stuck out his tongue, which was stained purple.

Sarge wrinkled his grille. "Very mature, bus."

"Aw, come on, man. Let's see yours."

After a bit of prodding, Sarge briefly stuck out his own blue tongue. Fillmore laughed, snorting slightly, which caused the edges of Sarge's bumper to twitch upward. They exchanged a brief, fond glance, Fillmore flicking his single mirror contently before Sarge averted his eyes. The bus chuckled again, quietly.

"You know Sarge, you're a good guy," he said. Sarge cleared his throat and cracked a very awkward smile for about half a second.

"Right, heh. Uhm, thanks Fillmore. You too. Okay! Let's get back on the road, shall we?"

"Yeah, right," Fillmore said, still smiling as he lead the way back to the road.


End file.
